I used to thinkI could see the edge of the worldfrom the Walt Whitman bridge.Around the same spell,a black sheepwould tell me scary storiesbefore naptime.I fell asleep to clipped Italianand soap opera drama.

We each had a place at the table--I only ate chicken tendersdrowned in ketchupice-cream at eleven AMfingers sticky as I reachedfor more Hershey Kisses,for another hand of cardsin the most loving games of warI've ever played.I was a card sharkat that mottled kitchen table for years.

But the evening,dotted with the golden glowof end-table lamps,heralded the arrival ofa drive homefive PM feelingants under my skin.After we’d packed up and,the leftovers were placed gentlyon the passenger’s seat,my grandmother would wavefrom the porch.Her teeth--large, falsebrown from all the coffee she’d drinkshone in the fading lightas she smiled.

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Alyssa is a scientist, a writer and a resplendent spectral wonder. She is holding out for the ghost of her dreams. Find her on twitter @ClinicallyChill.